


It Takes a Little Time

by jump_you_clever_boy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Grief/Mourning, Johnlock - Freeform, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-28
Updated: 2014-09-28
Packaged: 2018-02-19 02:09:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2370533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jump_you_clever_boy/pseuds/jump_you_clever_boy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Taken place six months after Sherlock's "death." John hasn't been taking it very well</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Takes a Little Time

I grip the arm of my burgundy chair, fingers digging into the cushioning, my calloused thumb rubbing against the soft fibers. I set my jaw and sit up straight with my shoulders back. A strong stance. I figure I need to at least look strong, even if every pillar of sanity within me is collapsing on to itself. But I can’t even manage that. Thankful that I am alone, I close my eyes and turn to bury my head against the back of my seat, breathing in the material that smelled so warm and familiar. I can’t stand to look at it. Sherlock’s chair. The way the black leather still molded to fit his shape, as if suggesting that he might at any time burst through the door and begin ranting on about some case or another and take a seat in front of me demanding tea from Mrs. Hudson. It’s been six months. How could he? Every time the thought crosses through my mind, my heart sinks down to my stomach and I feel like reiching. I could have helped him. We could have found some way to make everything okay again. For the longest time I was so alone, my life was more a struggle to survive than it was actually living. When I met him he seemed to bleed the color back into my life. He made me feel like I havent since childhood. And now he is gone. Now I am alone. Now I am only surviving. It sickens me. How much longer can I keep this charade of existence up? Just staying alive. Just staying. 

I’ve become numb like the rough tips of my fingers. Always searching for something to shock me back to life. Something to take me further. Something that might bring me closer to him. I bit the inside of my lip until I could faintly taste blood. I hardly even notice the pain. A low growl escapes my closed lips. I need to hear something other than the hollow silence. I think of Sherlock playing the violin. The way he swayed to the notes that danced off his strings, the way his eyes lit up when he completed the perfect melody for a composition. How his brow would furrow if he ever made a small mistake. It seemed all the passion, grief, and emotion in his life simply rozened his bow and was replaced with the moan of the instrument. My lips curl up, but my heart crumbles further.  
I’ve tried everything. Hurt myself in almost every physical way possible and was doomed to wearing exclusively long sleeves due to the cuts, bruises, scrapes, and burns that littered my once smooth skin. But that was the problem, they damaged my skin which was merely the shell of a much deeper wound that could not be reached with any blade, razor or match. It was that seething, unrelenting wound that sent me through a spiraling depression and forced me to see a shrink every other week so I could pretend to be better whilst the cutts got deeper and the bottles got bigger. Drinking had also become a problem and I knew it. Alcohol tends to bring a lot of anger out of me, but it was a hell of a lot better than what I usually felt. Sadness is in no way a strong enough, nor descriptive enough word to portray the hell that had burrowed it’s way inside me.  
I thought I had time, though as it turns out seconds tend to fall when you least expect them to.  
Sighing, I get up from my over-stuffed chair and straighten my spine. I’ve become so sick and tired of all this marinating in self pity, but what else was there? No one could ever really replace him, and now I am stuck in a boring job at a local clinic and dating a sub-par woman.  
I souldn’t say that. Mary is lovely, clever and kind and has been so patient with me through my depression. A few years earlier and I would have married her the first chance I got.  
So why don’t I love her? Why don’t I truly and completely love her? Have I really become so numb? What else in life is there if such a fantastic person can’t make you feel anything? When nothing can make you feel anything? When the thought of facing another day makes every cell in you groan? What is there now? What do I have to look forward to? Breathing seems to be frippery and moving is superfluous. Though I walk upstairs anyway. I silence my thoughts and focus on only the groaning of the old wooden steps. I find my way to my bedroom, turning the rusted knob and walking in, steps muffled by the dirty carpet. Across the room is my desk. The desk contains a gun. The gun contains a bullet. That bullet could take everything away. Make every un-sure thought just shut up. I wouldn’t be burden to myself or anyone else ever again. That could be it. That could be how I go, how I die, how I leave everything like he left me.  
Like he left me.  
No. I can’t.  
And that is exactly why.

I am nothing like Sherlock. No one could ever be. But that is why I have something he doesn't. Faith. It will get better. It has to get better. If I could just forget about him and all he did and how he made me feel... if I could forget. Live a life of ignorance to the fantastical I could go on. That could not be so bad, could it?


End file.
